Meeting Fen'Harel Again
by coryphenis
Summary: In Which Bran Makes the Acquaintance of an Ancient Elvhen Deity & Several Secrets Are Secrets No More


"I suspect you have questions."

Branwen bites out a bitter laugh. "That's _one_ way of putting it, Solas," she sighs and runs her left hand over her face before looking back up at him. "The Qunari taught me more than I thought they'd be able to. _You're_ Fen'Harel, aren't you? The Dread Wolf?"

The elf inclines his head, and Bran sees a smile flicker across his face. "Well done."

A moment passes, and Solas's— _Fen'Harel's_ —eyes meet hers. "I was Solas first. 'Fen'Harel' came later. A title, if you will… A badge of pride that I wore. The Dread Wolf inspired fear in those who would have gladly had me killed. Not unlike 'Inquisitor', I suppose," he sighs and his eyes tighten at the edges. "And now you know. What is the old Dalish curse? 'May the Dread Wolf take you'?"

Bran looks away. It hurts, Maker, it _hurts_ like nothing she's ever known. She still loves him, and that knowledge tears at her more than anything. She laughs sadly, throat tight. "And so he has."

Her mind is a roaring conflict of emotions. For the first time in - _How long has it been? Two, three years?_ \- she is standing before him, and he's _here_. He's here and real _and by the Maker_ , a weight she hadn't known had been on her shoulders is lifted.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly her hands are in his, and he's kneeling in front of her. "If nothing else, Branwen, believe me when I say that I have _never_ lain with you under false pretenses."

Her eyes burn. "And yet you lied to me. Did you not think that I would be able to handle the truth? That I would have _listened_?" Branwen turns her head to the side as a traitorous tear burns her cheek. "I _loved_ you, Solas. Void take me, I _still_ love you - by the Maker, I'm _married_!" A sob catches in her throat and she clenches her hand. "But I _love you and I can't change that_!"

His expression is mournful when she turns back to him. "Ir abelas, vhenan."

She shakes her head. "Tel'abelas. If you ever truly cared for me, give me the truth."

Solas takes a deep breath before beginning. "I sought to free the People— _my_ people—from would-be gods. I broke the chains of those who wished to be free. Some joined with my cause. Others simply left.

"The false gods named me Fen'Harel, and when they finally went too far, I created the Veil and banished them forever. Thus, I freed the People, and, in doing so, destroyed their world." Bran looks at Solas, _really_ looks at him. All the times when he'd seemed to carry too big a burden to bear suddenly make sense to her. The melancholy that always hung around him suddenly fit. _I never really knew him, did I?_

"How did the gods go too far? What made you move against them?"

"They killed Mythal." He scoffs derisively. "An eternity in torment was— _is—_ the only fitting punishment for such a crime."

"… I thought Mythal _was_ one of the Evanuris?"

"She was the best of us. She cared for her people, protected them. She was the voice of reason. And in their lust for power, they murdered her." His hands tighten on hers; when she whimpers, he loosens his hold, soft apologies falling from his lips.

Branwen cocks her head. "So you _banished_ the false gods, not killed them?"

Solas nods in affirmation. "You met Mythal, did you not? The first of the Elvhen do not die as easily as—" He stops abruptly, avoiding her gaze. Bran finishes the sentence for him.

"… As easily as shemlen? As easily as me?"

The agreement is slow to come. "Yes. The Evanuris are banished forever, paying the ultimate price for their misdeeds."

"You love the Fade, though. Why would you lock it away?" She frowns, trying to understand his reasoning behind the act.

"Every alternative was worse."

"How do you _know_ that, though?" He doesn't answer her. Branwen's grip strengthens. "Solas, what are you not telling me? _Please_ , my love. Help me understand!" The words are so reminiscent of those she'd spoken to Corypheus so long ago that it is unsettling. Solas sighs once more.

"Gereon Alexius was not the first mage to successfully attempt time-travel." Branwen blinks in confusion. _What?_

"Wait. Hold up. Time-travel? _Time-travel_ time-travel?!" He nods, and Bran has to take a deep breath, calm herself. "You mean to tell me that you have _traveled through time_?"

"Yes." The answer is simple, but Branwen _knows_ that it cannot be as simple as a single syllable. _Everything has a price_. Mythal's parting words echo in her skull.

"And at what cost, Solas? What price did you pay to go back to potentially change the past?

A shadow crosses his face, an unspoken promise of a dark knowledge that she will regret knowing. "I… It is difficult to explain, vhenan. I will attempt to do so. You will not thank me, I believe. It is not a… simple thing.

"It began with lyrium. The durgen'len—the children of the Stone—" _Dwarves_ , Bran surmised, "—and the People were not on… friendly terms. Relations were tense at best, and outright hostile at worst. The two races warred with each other. Then, on one of her many _hunts_ ," Solas's lip curled. "Andruil found a substance below the ground that enhanced her magic beyond anything ever seen by the Elvhen. She stole it from the durgen'len and returned to the surface with it. The Evanuris went mad for want of it.

"Mythal saw the madness in them before any other. She tried to stop them, first with words, and then with deeds. There was a bloody battle between my brethren. She died. When Mythal was killed, I journeyed back to a point from which I believed I could prevent her death. And, for a time, I'd thought I had succeeded," Solas took a shuddering breath, and the self-loathing Bran saw in his face rattled her more than Corypheus's claims to godhood had. "More the fool was I. It was only a matter of years… Andruil found lyrium again. The corruption was worse than before. Of course, it was only in retrospect that I realized this.

"Something… Something went horribly wrong with the lyrium. It _did_ enhance their magics, but it also drove them over the brink of insanity this time. It brought out a darkness in them that I had never before seen the likes of. They killed Mythal again. I went back again. I went back again twice more before I realized the mistake I had made," His voice wavers, and Bran reaches out and cups his face in her hands. Solas closes his eyes. "The altering of time had, in principal, destroyed many thousands of lives—maybe even millions. The souls of those lost had nowhere to go. The lyrium absorbed them, and it… _tainted_ it."

The enunciation and hesitation in his voice has her stomach dropping to her toes. "'Tainted'? Solas… Are you telling me that th-the Blight—?"

His silence is answer enough. Her face crumples. She extricates her hands from his and covers her face, as though to protect herself from the knowledge she has been given. Solas's chest constricts. The last thing he ever wanted was to cause her more pain than he already has. Bran's shoulders shake. Solas touches her arm. "Vhenan…"

"Why?" Her voice is strained. " _Why_ , Solas? How could you do that?" She lifts her eyes to his, shiny with tears. He swallows against the knot in his throat.

"Branwen, it was never my intention—" She cuts him off angrily.

"Damn your intentions! Because of you— Because of—!" Branwen chokes, and suddenly she's in his arms, shaking and crying, and he's crying, too. If they drown in their own tears, he thinks, it would be a fitting end. The Anchor flares, magic sour and pungent, and it's all Bran can do not to scream.

Solas sends another wave of calming magic over Bran's arm, and they hold each other until the tears subside. The pain in her arm lessens, but Bran still shakes. It is almost _too much_ , this newest revelation. Her former lover an ancient being of immense power? She can deal with that. But this…? That Solas is the reason the Blight even exists? Branwen shudders once more before giving herself a mental kick. _Calm down. Breathe._ _ **Breathe**_ _._

"I have one more question."

"I will answer to the best of my ability." Bran raises an eyebrow. Solas amends the statement. "I will answer what I can— _without_ divulging my plans."

"How _did_ the creation of the Veil destroy the world?"

He is quiet for a while. Not because he does not know what to say—no, never that. He simply wishes to hold Branwen close for a little longer, feel the _weight_ and _solidness_ of her in his arms. She is warm, and Solas finds himself wishing to freeze time as Inquisitor Ameridan had, to keep the world away, unmoving, unseeing, and to simply _be_ with her. Holding her strengthens the _Here and Now_ , and keeps him tied in with the present. Finally, though, he speaks.

"You saw the remains of the library—the Vir Dirthara. It was knitted into the Fade, and when I made the Veil, it… It destroyed it." He buries his nose in her hair, the lemon-balm scent of her hair a soothing caress. "There were countless other marvels that depended on the Fade, millennia of knowledge gathered, and because of me, it is gone. Forever."

He laughs self-deprecatingly. "The legends you've head of Elvhen immortality? All true. But it was not the arrival of humans that took it from the People. It was me. The creation of the Veil cut them off from the Fade, from Uthenera, and so cut them off from the lifespan they were meant to have.

"The Veil took everything from the elves—even themselves." Bran twists herself so that she can look Solas straight in the face, and his heart _aches_ when he sees the emotions flickering across her face—sadness, anger, sorrow, and, beneath it all, a deep, unending well of _compassion_. Slowly, Bran raises her hands to his face, and she cups him in her palms, thumbs stroking just below his eyes. Solas leans into her touch. He hasn't been touched—hasn't _allowed_ himself to be touched—since that night in Crestwood. It feels like a lifetime and then some, and he savors the feeling of companionship her hands bring.

"Solas…" Her voice is whisper-soft, uncertain. Her eyes are the same impossibly deep grey that they were the day that Corypheus was defeated. "That was the past. What about the future?"

"I've slept for centuries, vhenan. I woke up a year before the conclave—weak, powerless. But now…" He trails off, and suddenly he is so very far away and Branwen isn't sure _where_ he's gone. "My people have fallen because of what I did to the Evanuris. They have lost so much… But now, I can give it back to them. There is hope for restoration. I _will_ save the People, even if it means that this world must die."

Branwen's throat tightens again. "Solas, _please_ , whatever you want, this world _dying_ is not the answer."

"Not a good answer, no. But sometimes terrible choices all that remain." He looks genuinely remorseful, and for Bran, that makes it all the worse. She swallows, closes her eyes.

"Then… Let me help." A surprised noise has her eyes opening again. Solas is staring at her as though he cannot believe that she truly just said that—and he can't. _Why would she offer this? After everything I've told her, everything that she's learned about me?_ Branwen sees the hesitation in his eyes, and presses her suit, imploring. "Let me help you, Solas. Please."

He shakes his head slowly. "No, ma vhenan. I cannot do that to you. I would not wish it on anyone… You are no longer mine."

Bran's laugh is mirthless. "But you would take it upon yourself? You know as well as I that it will _destroy_ you, Solas—and I can't bear the thought of you being alone."

Solas smiles forlornly. "I walk the Din'anshiral. There is only death there. I would not have you see what I may become," he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss to Bran's temple. "

"Besides, this is my fight. You should be more concerned about the Inquisition; _your_ Inquisition. In stopping the Dragon's Breath, you have prevented an invasion by Qunari forces. Perhaps, with luck, they will return their attention to Tevinter. That should give you a few more years of relative peace."

Frowning, Bran leans her head into Solas's neck. "What's wrong with the Inquisition?"

"You've created a powerful organization, and now it suffers the fate which all have suffered. Betrayal and corruption." He says it as though it were an inevitable fact.

"It's not so simple as that, though." Solas shrugs.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Ask the Iron Bull. Tell me, do you have any idea _how_ I discovered the Qunari plot—the plot I disrupted by leading them to your doorstep?" Bran is silent.

"The Qunari spies in the Inquisition tripped over _my_ spies in the Inquisition. The elvhen guard who led you to the Qunari body, who intercepted the servant with the barrel of gaatlok? _Mine_."

"Then…" Her mind is whirling, awash with more information than she really knows what to make of. "Then why did you even bother interfering with the plot? Why not just let it happen?"

"You have shown me that there is value in this world, Branwen. I take no joy in what I must do. Until that day comes, I will see those recovering from the Breach free of the Qun."

"Why, though?"

"Because I am not a monster. If they must die, I would rather that they die in comfort. In any event, it is done." Branwen can feel the pain returning to her arm, spiderwebbing out from the Anchor, violently green threads just beneath her skin. Solas takes in a sharp breath, and she knows that he can see it, too.

"And the mark? It's getting worse; has been, ever since Corypheus."

"I know, vhenan. And we are running out of time." _We, not_ _ **you**_. The thought is a small comfort, a brief warmth in her chest. It is all too-quickly drowned out by pain crackling through her bones. Branwen cries out, leaning against Solas's chest as she clutches uselessly at his hauberk. "The Anchor is killing you," Solas stands, pulling Bran to her feet along with him. "Drawing you here… gives me the chance to save you, for now."

 _One last chance._ "I'm _not_ giving up on you, Solas. You don't need to destroy this world. There _is_ a way to give what was lost back to the elves _and_ save my people. I _know_ there is."

The Anchor crackles, and Branwen is alarmed to see her veins glowing Fade-green. Solas slides a hand along her jaw, tilting her head up. He brushes his mouth against her forehead, eyelids, along her brow and cheekbones, and eventually hovers above her lips, breath warm on her skin. His forehead rests against hers, and Bran can't help but briefly imagine what a life without all of this shit would be like; would she have met Cullen, married him? Would she and Solas have ever even met? Likely not, but even so, visions of a quiet cottage tucked away in the Frostbacks ( _thatched roof and shuttered windows and herbs growing all around it_ ) flit through her mind, as does the chiming laughter of children ( _a daughter with eyes as blue as his and freckles on her apple cheeks, a toddler with her nose and his chin, a babe in a blanket held to her breast_ ), and it's as though such things may as well have existed, if the sharp pain in her chest is anything to go by.

"I will treasure the chance to be proved wrong once again, ma vhenan," he takes her Fade-kissed hand in both of his, and there's a white-bright pain lancing through her; she's crying, he's holding her, apologizing, murmuring _I love you_ in archaic Elvhen. "I will never, _never_ forget you, my love."

And then he steps through the Eluvian and is gone, and Bran is standing alone with tears fresh on her cheeks and the taste of him on her tongue. It is only when she looks down that she realizes that her arm is gone.


End file.
